In the romantic dream of a sage who teaches you the world's and better ways
is where I often live.
With an honest, in-the-chest yearning for oldness,
history, wrinkles to tell their tales
to speak of human life. To draw me to a warm hearth - and tell me desperate stories.
I have no such formal sage.
Though I searched, and beat my breast when there was none to be found:
a bit like an orphan - wondering what daily life in Christ looks like.
No, but I am in the company of many,
and in the economy of mercy - I am one, with them.
The night of my conversion, the speaker spoke to us on the ground,
"get up, and turn around - welcome to the family of God".
I have read Lewis, Augustine, Keirgkegaard.
Theresa, my Mother of faith, Nouwen,
and His tracings scrawl across the lives of the enlivened and upon the rocks that call.
The stories, yes - desperate. The telling of them unique, human-voiced: loud, boisterous, crying, painful, laughing; and heart felt.
Mmmm, that He might make our hearts the listening hearth upon which His stories tell and resound.